


Grief

by Morpheus626



Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-05
Updated: 2014-01-05
Packaged: 2018-01-07 13:33:47
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,052
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1120438
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Morpheus626/pseuds/Morpheus626
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Legolas is old enough to start properly wondering and asking questions about his mother--he wants, and needs, to know what happened to her. Thranduil isn't sure he can be strong enough to answer such questions, but it's a father's job to answer such painful questions, no matter how much it hurts.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Grief

**Author's Note:**

> This is an addition of sorts to my previous fic "Memory Amongst the Trees." I would recommend reading that one first, if only because it provides background to this fic and establishes my headcanon for Legolas' mother. Since we don't have any canon info on her I've always wanted to explore the topic and do my own take on it while trying to blend what canon information (both book and film) we do have for Legolas and Thranduil.  
> I wasn't intending to do another fic in which she is no longer present, but this is just what happened. Hopefully I will be able to get some more writing done shortly, and can post a fic in which she is present and the Mirkwood family is whole and happy! 
> 
> Until then, I present another angst-filled fic with young Legolas and struggling-single-dad Thranduil. 
> 
> If you want to share any thoughts or just yell at me to stop writing angst you can comment here or contact me at my tumblr: www.itsalwaysprettiestafterthefall.tumblr.com
> 
> As always, these characters do not belong to me, they belong to J.R.R. Tolkien and their film interpretations belong to their actors and Peter Jackson and co.

“Legolas please let go.” Thranduil attempted to lift his left leg up and shake off his son’s iron grasp, but it seemed Legolas would not be easily removed. The nursemaids had warned him this would happen, as soon as the elfling could walk. 

“He’ll grasp onto you and never want to let go. He’ll want to be everywhere you are, and you’ll have to find a way to tell him no at some point. Not good to indulge them forever, makes for a spoilt elf later on. Thankfully your father was wise in that regard—you turned out just fine.” Now more than ever did Thranduil realize just how wise that elder nurse’s advice had been. 

Legolas, nearly five years in Middle-earth, was like a vine growing around his legs; constantly underfoot and in the way regardless of the situation. Thranduil’s pride still stung from the last fall; he’d tripped over Legolas while greeting a messenger from Rivendell. He’d hoped not to keep them long, as it was rare that Elrond ever felt it safe enough to send anyone so far; that had proved impossible after he tumbled over Legolas (who had been attempting to weave himself in and out of Thranduil’s path for sport) and had gone crashing to the floor so hard that his crown had fallen from his head. The whole thing had been terribly embarrassing, but the messenger was kind about the incident and seemed rather grateful for the break in formality. The message hadn’t been one of much importance, and Thranduil guessed it was more of an example to Elrond’s children that the various elven settlements should do their best to be civil and keep up contact. Thranduil could admire that. 

However, the situation had made Thranduil realize that he could not continue to let Legolas clamber over him like a tree with every movement. Thus far his only escape had been occasional hunting trips, and those had become few and far between. Legolas wept whenever Thranduil even mentioned leaving the palace; and the nursemaids had scolded him for giving in so easily to his son’s cries. But it was truly difficult leaving Legolas behind for any amount of time; after all, they only had one another. He supposed that everyone else’s insight was correct in the end, and he would have to break Legolas of this habit before it (somehow) got worse. 

For the moment, he was simply focused on freeing his leg from Legolas. “Why don’t we race to the library? I doubt you could beat me there but…” 

Legolas looked up to Thranduil with a pout on his face. “Don’t want to race. Just walk there.” He pressed his face into Thranduil’s calf and clung on tightly. Thranduil sighed; he had really been hoping the idea of a race might give him a chance to walk without Legolas along for the ride, and an opportunity to get proper blood-flow back to the rest of his leg. There was only one other way he might free his leg, and that seemed to be the only solution now. 

“What if I carried you there? Would that be bett-“Thranduil was cut off as Legolas cheered, and started to climb up him. He leaned down and Legolas nearly leapt into his arms, a grin as bright as starlight on his face. Thranduil smiled as well, though his face seemed ill-suited to the act now. The loss of his wife was far in the past to most elves, having occurred not long after Legolas’ birth; but to him it seemed a fresh and open wound. Its memory made it difficult to smile, or to answer Legolas’ questions about families and why their family was so small when other elflings had so many other elves to share a home with—the questions were innocent of course, but they stung nonetheless. Thranduil still hadn’t answered the biggest question of all: “Where is my mother?” He knew how to answer it, but just wasn’t sure if he had the strength to give a satisfactory answer to Legolas. 

The walk to the library went quickly now that Thranduil had full use of his legs. Legolas had settled happily in his arms, humming contentedly. If only his son would always be so happy and calm—but surely there would come a time when Legolas would know fear, pain, and grief. The world did not grant anyone respite from such things. 

Thranduil fell back into an armchair in the library, and waited for Legolas to beg to be let go to try and climb the bookshelves. The request never came, however, and Legolas instead settled even more comfortably into his father’s arms. 

“Legolas, you know I do enjoy having you by my side—“ Thranduil looked down to his son, and Legolas nodded absent-mindedly, busy with creating loose braids in the ends of Thranduil’s long blond hair. “But I can’t have you in my path all of the time.” 

At this, Legolas looked up angrily. “But I help! I’m always quiet and I don’t bother anyone and I like being with you!” The last word ended in a sob, and Legolas shoved his face Thranduil’s side as he started to cry. 

That broke Thranduil’s heart. He couldn’t bear to see Legolas hurting—but there would be so much worse in the world that would hurt his son, and he couldn’t protect him from everything. Besides that, he knew Legolas had friends he was neglecting in order to spend all day with him. Even if Legolas wouldn’t admit it, he knew his son missed those friends and their games. 

“What about your friends Legolas? They must miss you, and I know you miss watching the guard’s archery practice. Why not spend a bit of time with them again? You can always spend a day with me if you wish, but you can’t stay locked in the palace with me every day and night.” Thranduil shuddered at his own words; it had only now hit him that he was doing just that himself. When had he last gone out of the gates for more than a moment or two, for a reason other than to hunt the spiders in the forest? He couldn’t remember. 

Legolas’ tear-stained face came away from his robes, and he met his son’s eyes. “But what if you leave?” 

Thranduil hugged Legolas closer. “I might leave every now and again; to get rid of more of the spiders, or just to ride for a bit. It isn’t as if I’ll be leaving forever.” 

“But isn’t that what mother did?” 

Thranduil’s heart dropped. Surely no one would have told Legolas how his mother had died—no one would dare to disobey his orders to be careful around that particular topic. Yet it seemed someone, perhaps a butler or a nurse had looser lips than expected. He would have to answer the worst question Legolas had asked yet, whether he was ready to or not. 

Thranduil sighed. “Your mother was a wonderful elf. She was very intelligent, and kind. The best queen our people could ask for. She’s the one who made your toy bow—though that was long before you were born. She kept it held aside until we had you—she’d be so proud to see your love of archery now.” 

Legolas had stopped crying, and was staring up at Thranduil in rapt attention. 

“She was an amazing archer. She’d want you to know that she beat me more than once in competition—she never let me forget that, which she was right to. She was absolutely in love with you, wouldn't even let me hold you at first. She was convinced I would drop you—“ Thranduil stopped for a moment as the memory of his son’s birth flooded his mind. It was one of the brightest moments of his life, if not the brightest. 

“And I was worried I would drop you as well, truthfully. But neither of us did, and you were a wonderfully loud and tiring joy that kept your mother plenty busy while she recovered.” Thranduil heard his voice start to waver, and felt himself on the edge of tears. The wound never was going to close, and he would have to accept that. It had been bad, the pain of watching his father die, but this was a different pain altogether. He could not wholly put it behind him, but could only let it lie where it was. Time would make it easier to talk about, though it would never be truly easy to discuss, but he didn’t have time now. What he did have was a curious and concerned son, who deserved to know what had happened. 

“She recovered rather quickly after you were born. You were only two weeks old when she insisted on going out—she took a hunting party out to try and clean away some of the new spider nests that had formed. Legolas, she was a skilled warrior, I don’t want you to think she wasn’t. But even the skilled fall in battle.” 

Thranduil could feel the tears running down his face, and he scolded himself for crying in front of Legolas. But it seemed not to bother Legolas, who had settled against him and had been listening intently. 

“What happened to her?” Legolas’ voice was quiet, yet it broke the silence as though he had yelled. Thranduil wiped the tears from his eyes, and shakily continued to speak. 

“She was taken by the spiders with much of the rest of the party. Only a few made it back to tell me—and then we searched. For your mother, and the other soldiers who had gone with her. I thought we wouldn’t find her, but we did.” Thranduil sighed, remembering how happy he had been to see her again and how he had then been utterly stricken with fear when he saw how hurt she was. 

“There were some of the party we lost to the spiders, but your mother was still alive. The healers worked hard to clean her wounds—but the spider’s poison can be incredibly toxic in high amounts, and her system was flooded with it. She tried incredibly hard to stay alive for you—for us. But we are vulnerable as any others in battle, and she—“Thranduil’s voice faltered. No matter how he tried to phrase it, he couldn’t bring himself to say it. But he had to, for his sake and for Legolas’. He’d been avoiding the whole thing for far too long. 

“Your mother died. She died doing what she had to do—protecting our kingdom and the forest. And protecting us.” Thranduil’s face was hot with tears, and he could hear Legolas sniffling as well. He let himself cry, and he let Legolas cry. He had never truly finished mourning for her—and maybe he never would. But he owed it to Legolas to at least try to start the wound to heal. He had a son and a kingdom to look after, and she would have hated to see either suffer after her death. Thranduil owed it to her as well, to be the king and father she would have wanted him to be. 

The next few hours passed in silence as they sat together, father and son. It would be evening soon, and Thranduil was surprised no one had come to get them for dinner yet. Neither of them wept any longer, but neither could bring themselves to speak. Legolas had burrowed closer to him, and had started to braid the ends of his father’s hair again. Thranduil let him, and simply held him closer. Eventually the two drifted off to sleep, both exhausted from their grief; Legolas’ newly found and Thranduil’s reopened. The servants would find them in the morning, and leave them to rest—until the two would finally rise for the day, and would spend the afternoon wandering in and out of the palace, with Thranduil telling and re-telling every story he had of his wife to Legolas. 

Just before nightfall, Legolas would try his hand with a proper bow—and Thranduil would watch proudly as his son hit his mark with ease, and would think of his wife and how proud she too would have been of Legolas.


End file.
